


Everything, On Our Own

by fightingthecage



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blowjobs, Established Relationship, Javert survives, Javert's Confused Boner, Lack of Understanding, M/M, Masturbation, Miscommunication, Post-Seine, Sex, Submission, Things Got Intense and They Did It, Valjean's Boner is Also Perplexed, relationship dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:57:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightingthecage/pseuds/fightingthecage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valjean is happy with Javert, apart from one frustrating problem. </p><p>AKA: Javert always did like a chase.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another fic that started fluffy in my head - and also more pornographic - and ended up refusing to comply. But let's see how we go. 
> 
> Unbeta'd, yada yada; I own all suckitude; one day I will put proper effort into a fanfic, and it'll be the last one I ever write. Con crit always welcome.

 

 

It is a strange and wonderous thing, life. He has given it much thought, as he gives most things thought. The circumstances of his own life have dictated the necessity for it. That a man should be born a peasant is no great wonder. Even that he should become a criminal is hardly a rare occurrence, though it still pains him to consider how many are branded so. And from there through fire and light, to a man of business, to a mayor, to a private gentleman. Through revolution – or the attempt at it – to walking to the gates of death, and being refused. To this, now, here; a sunny afternoon in Paris, a small house with a green garden, food on the table, and a man sitting opposite with his nose buried in the newspaper.

‘You are staring again.’

‘Apologies.’ He smiles, and looks away. Warmth surrounds all. This is life, then. His grandchildren will come tomorrow, make a delightful mess, bless him with pudgy, embracing arms and run around on the grass outside. He will drink tea with his daughter, and Javert will look awkward when her little boy wants to talk with him. But he will do it, if only to avoid having to hold the baby, and there will be smiles all around. It will be perfect.

He stretches in his seat, and considers today. It is a problem. The knowledge of tomorrow throws into stark relief that which he tries not to think about; that today could be perfect too, if only he would be satisfied. He reasons with himself that he has spent a lifetime on the edge of fear, and occasionally plunged head-first into terror, so to find himself unbalanced by things as they are is a terrible and ungrateful thing. He has prayed for forgiveness. He has prayed for peace. He has prayed to recall the times he has wanted even a fraction of what he has now. Still the nagging thought will not leave him that he is speaking to the wrong person. The solution to this particular difficulty does not lie with God.

‘Do you have plans for the afternoon, Javert?’

A corner of the newspaper twitches down. ‘No. Should I have? I could certainly make some.’

‘No, no. There is no need.’ He smiles again, pinned under a gaze which has lost none of its intensity. ‘I think I may tend to the garden. Perhaps we could go for a walk later.’

Javert sniffs, and returns to his reading. ‘You live in that garden. But yes, a walk later would be agreeable.’

He hesitates a moment, but in the end adds nothing more. What he would like to have said is, _perhaps we might go to bed?_ But Javert would not like that. Javert would say no. Or worse, sigh and then say _all right_ , as though being asked to kill a puppy.

It is not as if they do not touch each other, he muses, as he collects some seedlings to plant. Far from it. They share a bed, and are most certainly no longer pure. In the beginning, when this had not settled to the point of living together, every night spent apart was torment – and he does not think he was alone in that emotion, if the fervency of Javert’s mouth and hands the next day were any judge. They have explored each other all over, inside and out; taken pleasure and given it, with the intensity of any new lovers mapping the lines, the joys, of another person. It had not been easy at first, because neither of them had any experience, and everything was conducted in the shadow of a long and painful history. But they moved past it. Time does not quite heal all; Javert’s permanent limp, and his own scarred back, are testament to that. But touch heals quite a lot, he has found; uncertainties melt under careful fingers, questions can be kissed to understanding,  deep and silent love rests, and grows, in the joining of bodies.

And this last is the problem. Valjean digs his fingers into newly-watered earth to stop a frustrated word falling free, and pauses there, feeling cool wet soil wrap around his skin. Just thinking of this – of how they used to be – gives him a red face, and a mind full of memories best kept to himself. He does not want a repeat of that afternoon last month, which remains a shameful memory no matter how it turned out. Instead, he tries to remember the last time they shared any intimacy. It was that afternoon, he is sure. A full month ago.

He pulls his fingers from the earth, and sits back on his heels. This is not a good way to spend ones thoughts, probably. He has gone years, in the past, knowing he would never experience any of the things he has since. He should count himself lucky he has what he has; while their activities are not against the law, they are certainly frowned upon by the church, and society. He has kept the truth of their relationship from Cosette for exactly this reason, because he cannot bear the thought of ruining her good standing with his own desperate desires. That he has found a man who shares them, no matter how reluctantly, is something he should be wholly glad of.

Javert has come into the garden with his newspaper. He sits under a tree, reading still. Valjean finds himself watching; imagining the stern face as it frowns at every word, as though they are trying to trick him with double meanings and obscure puns. It brings a rush of feeling, a warm pulse of affection so strong he has to grip the handle of the spade standing in the grass next to him. _That_ is the real problem, he thinks. Love. If he did not love the man, his physical indifference would not cut so much. He could find someone else – though he would not, because he will never be promiscuous. But he _could_. Or he could remain in chastity. But this is Javert. He does not want to remain in chastity. He loves him, and wants to love him wholly. And more, would very much like to be loved wholly in return.

‘You are still staring.’

He sighs, and lowers his eyes to the earth. ‘Apologies,’ he mutters, and turns back to his work. The garden will not grow on its own. At least he can cultivate satisfaction out here.

 

 

*

 

They walk side by side to the gardens, each with a cane. He, because it is part of a private gentleman’s ensemble; Javert, out of necessity. His fall into the river – Valjean does not like to think of it as a leap – took a hefty toll on his body, and one he struggled to pay. One leg will forever be an inch shorter than the other, and it pains him greatly on wet days. He never complains about this. He never complains about anything, except perhaps foolish men who smile at him too much, and grandchildren leaving jammy fingerprints on the kitchen table. Sometimes, Valjean finds himself wondering whether he keeps silent because there is nothing to find fault with, or whether he is storing them up for something large. He does not ask. He waits. The answer will come sometime, he is sure. But there; Javert is more silent than he used to be in all respects. He no longer speaks as though his thoughts come from some external source, voiced as discovered. He is far more likely to consider whether he wishes to say something – and perhaps, even, consider the potential impact – than he once was. More often than not, it seems he prefers quiet.

And so it is this evening. Valjean murmurs a word or two about the flowers, the lightness of the sky at this hour, the raucous cry of duelling swans on the pond. Javert nods, offers a yes or a no, and that is all. Valjean cannot help but look at him from the corner of his eye, at least from time to time; the man has his nose up, scanning the area as he always does, his cane grinding on the gravel with every off-fall of his foot. Ever the policeman, he thinks. And smiles, because it still brings the smallest twist of fear to him; too small to scare, but large enough to excite.

‘And now you are grinning at me again. Fauchelevent, you are the strangest of men.’

He is fastidious about using the correct name in public. Valjean’s lips tug wider of their own volition. ‘Do you never smile at things you find pleasing?’

‘When they please me, yes. Not constantly.’

Valjean continues to look at him. A moment later there comes a small sigh, and Javert meets his gaze. And smiles, a little. Valjean nods, satisfied, and looks away. ‘Shall we sit by the path, or the water?’

‘I have no preference.’

‘The path, then.’ He steers them in the direction of a seat, because they always sit for a while. It is a pleasant evening, and a change is good, and also it is easier on Javert’s leg. Neither of them will mention that, of course. They sit in silence, bathed in evening sunlight. Valjean watches the children feeding the ducks. It is a thankless task these little ones have set themselves. One eye sees a crust, and takes it. Two eyes see the next, and both try. Then four, then six, and then a pack, fighting over morsels. Some get nothing, no matter how hard little arms throw. He finds it a strangely depressing sight, even though he knows, objectively, the animals can feed themselves. The bread is just a help. But it is always the same. He finds one who seems to constantly miss out, and wills it to fly a little faster, push a little harder. Maybe it will catch the next…but no, the bread is being thrown in the other direction, to keep things fair. He feels sorry for the bird when the food is all gone, and it has to swim away with nothing.

‘Do not waste your sympathy on it.’

‘Sympathy is like love. It never runs out.’

A soft snort. Javert’s eyes are aimed down the path. ‘Only you would equate the two.’

‘I hardly think so. They come together in many ways.’

‘Do they?’ The gaze swivels to him then. ‘One comes from the other?’

‘No. No, that is not what I meant.’ For all Javert’s development in thinking, he is still alarmingly abrupt at times. ‘They are two different things. But both can be endless.’

‘If you are you, perhaps. For most people, sympathy is a finite quality. Only so much to give each person.’

He thinks of the Thenardiers. ‘Well. Maybe so.’

Javert returns to his perusal of the park. The sun is set, but it will be another thirty minutes or so until the light fades. It is late spring, and the days are long. When they get home, it will be time for a cup of tea, and perhaps a slice of bread. And then bed. Something inside jumps at him, waving for attention. It is impossible to ignore it, and he has not been – has he not spent most of the afternoon thinking about it? He should be glad that the thought of bed still stirs him, rather than full acceptance of the inevitable outcome. They will undress, then redress more comfortably. Night-time ablutions, a kiss goodnight. And then sleep, just an inch apart. Sometimes not even that. Javert, for all his disinterest, seems perfectly content to press along his back, or push backwards into his chest. Sometimes he wakes up in the night and blinks at the ceiling, wondering what awoke him, only to find his breathing a little laboured from having Javert’s head on his chest.

‘What are you thinking about?’

The question interrupts his thoughts, and causes the faintest of blushes to rise on his cheek. Javert is gazing at him intently. He shrugs one shoulder a little, and says, ‘nothing’. He is assessed a moment longer, then released. Relief follows, and then annoyance that he feels so, because he is not _afraid_ of Javert, or the way he looks at him. He should probably just answer the question. But they are in public, and the gaze has swivelled away, and he is afraid of the answer anyway.

Suddenly, Javert stands. Valjean’s eye line is dragged upwards with him on instinct, and his shoulders jerk back in surprise. He is staring left, and his stance is such that Valjean has not seen in three years; he is straight-backed, erect, his cane in his hand like a club. His eyes blaze, his head back, his nostrils flare; _now_ there is a tremor of fear to be felt, but the attention is not on him so he does not dwell on it.

‘Javert?’

The man raises his cane to point. ‘There.’

There is a man on the far side of the pond, perhaps a hundred yards away. He looks furtive, it is true – but looking so is not a crime. He is dressed in workman’s clothes and cap, and carries a misshapen bag. He is looking behind too, and now Valjean looks closer, he does appear to be hurrying in a way that is not quite natural. But there could be any number of reasons for that.

Javert is no longer looking at the man. He looks to the trees behind him, to where the path will be as it curves around from where they are now. ‘Come along, come along,’ he mutters under his breath, none too quietly. Valjean glances from him to the duck-feeding children, and is thankful to see them being buttoned up to go home, happy and oblivious. He is not sure what he is looking at in this scene – but Javert is. And Javert in this stance was never mistaken. ‘Idiots!’ he hears, said with vehemence, and has to search again for the source – there are policemen then, following the man. Two of them, not moving much faster than the target. Javert scowls, almost moves off, then checks himself at once. Valjean puts a hand on his arm, but is not sure it is felt.

‘One should come around. Look at them! Fat idiots; they will never catch him when he runs. They should have used the trees for cover, and circled around and cut him off from the other side. Caught between two and the water, he would have no chance.’

This is said to himself, Valjean is sure. There is no evident need for him to give a reply. Javert follows the silent chase with his eyes, and then exclaims suddenly, ‘there!’ at the sight of four more policemen coming up from the other direction. A whistle squeals out, shattering the peace of the park and causing birds to fly up in alarm; the hunted man breaks and runs, chased by the first two policemen and unknowingly running straight towards the embrace of the four waiting. He drops his bag with a loud _clank_ at some point; Valjean muses - without meaning to, without watching at all - how suddenly a prize becomes a burden, how quickly elation turns to fear when you are a criminal.

He watches Javert. It is all the commentary he needs. He can sit and pay the affair no mind, and still live every step through the light in his partner’s eyes; _there_ , a gleam of satisfaction at someone making the right move; _there,_ a huff of breath, almost sharp, at some movement of police; _there_ , his gaze following intently, his shoulders leaning in, his head turning slightly up to direct a policeman to change direction. His breath, alert but calm to begin with, comes faster. More abrupt, sharp like a bloodhound with the scent wafting his way. ‘Yes,’ he hears, murmured quietly. ‘Yes, that is right.’ And then his eyes widen, and shine, and a corner of his mouth curls up in the terrible visage of a killer about to pounce; Valjean would like to shut the sight away, and cannot look, but he does not need to. Javert sucks in a sharp breath, a yell is heard from some distance, and then the unmistakable sound of a pack of men swarming onto the kill.

Not a kill, of course. There was no shot, merely a few muffled thumps. The man can be heard proclaiming his innocence, and being pulled away. Still, it might as well be a kill. If he is a thief, it will be the bagne for him. Valjean blinks long, and slow, and only when the sounds have died away does he look up again.

Javert has not moved. He is alert still, watching the scene until the death. Valjean does not blame him, of course, but finds he is unhappy. He looks down his partner’s body – trembling a little even, he sees – and prepares to stand, to join him, so they may go home. And then…and then.

It is not a mistakable sight. Even if he sees it but rarely these days, he is not wrong. No one would be wrong. Good grief.

He swallows, and looks away, his throat suddenly dry. Part of him exults in what he sees; another part is sickened at what has caused it. But this is not the place for discussion on the matter. He forces himself to stand. Javert jerks his head towards him minutely, blinks, and pulls his topcoat closed. ‘Home?’ he mutters, and Valjean nods.

‘Yes.’

Once again they walk in silence, but faster now. Valjean’s thoughts are not peaceful; he does not notice birds and flowers. He absorbs energy instead; Javert is thrumming with it; it is packed under his clothes, forces his stride short, makes him briefly grip Valjean’s wrist when a coach goes by and gives them cover. He feels his heart leap up his throat at the contact, and turns his head; Javert catches his eye and the hunger is unmistakeable. It is rather like finding oneself made of steak, and being dangled in front of a dog. He tries not to think about how this came about, not when caught in that gaze. He thinks how much he wants to be eaten.

Their front door bangs behind them. For a moment, they pretend civility as they take off their coats, place their canes and hats in the correct places in the hall. They walk into the sitting room, and Valjean seriously considers saying ‘tea?’ when a large hand descends on the back of his neck. He stiffens at once, turns or is turned, and then it does not matter; Javert kisses him as if it is the only source of life, as if he is drowning again, as if he, Valjean, is dying again. He can only respond in kind, hands already pulling at jacket, and waistcoat buttons, and tugging at his shirt. He wants to say _it excited you_ , but that much is obvious; also, it is not the time to ruin this. Desire blooms like the unfurling of a rosebud in light, spreads like ink in water, explodes like gunfire into skin. Javert pushes him backwards onto the couch, and falls on him, his mouth hard and searching, his breath coming fast once more. Valjean moans as his shirt is pulled up and his bare stomach meets Javert’s; it is the first full contact of skin for a month, and he was wrong about how much he missed it. You miss what you remember of it; only the reality can reteach it. He writhes for more, and pulls his leg up so Javert will have no choice but to fit their hips together. A gasp tells him the effect is not lost, and then he yanks at Javert’s cravat, desperate to feel  him close.

‘You are keen,’ Javert says, in a low voice. He braces himself on his arms above him, looking down while Valjean searches for skin, pressing them hard together.

‘Yes. I am eager.’ He will not deny it. And Javert laughs then, quiet and not without menace, and starts to unbutton his trousers. Valjean will not speak in case something happens to dissuade him; he removes his cravat at last and throws it away, and slips his hands under Javert’s shirt. The man is lean; he can feel the bumps of each rib, press his fingers into the tough sinew of him, trace each muscle, each scar. He wants time to play, to rediscover the man, but Javert clearly has plans of his own. He wastes no time in opening Valjean’s trousers, and smiles lasciviously as he exposes him entire.

‘Very eager,’ he notes, and Valjean has to fight to keep still. He fails, but Javert pushes back, and rests on his heels, and seems to contemplate his arousal. His own is still obvious, and Valjean curls his fingers into a fist to avoid reaching for it. And then, a hand is placed on his stomach, and presses upwards, under his shirt, until it comes to rest at the base of his throat. The other curls around his prick and starts, gently, to pull.

Valjean freezes. In surprise, he notes, more than anything. Javert’s touch is rarely so careful; one of the things they both enjoy about sex, and each other, is that while neither of them have expressed a particular interest in rough play, neither has insisted on gentleness either. When this happens, it always holds an undertow of need, a strong current of desperation and raw emotion that sweeps them both away. They might start slow; they might profess love with soft kisses and sucking lips, but by the time they finish, they are always the same. Hot, and hard, and sweating; sometimes loud, always spent. There is never anything deliberate. They crash and rub, and _feel_ ; they do not think.

Javert is thinking. He can tell. The grip at his throat is not rough, but not mistakable as anything else. He is not sure what to make of it, other than that the hand on his cock feels divine.

‘Loosen your clothes,’ Javert says. ‘I will watch.’

He does not hesitate. He finishes the buttons on his waistcoat. He pulls the rest of his shirt free of his trousers. His chest is heaving as Javert’s fingers stroke gently at the fleshy tip of him – it has been so _long_ – and he removes his own cravat with shaking fingers. ‘You will tease, then?’ he says, breathlessly. ‘After a month?’

‘So long?’ Javert is not good at feigning ignorance. He knows how long it has been. Valjean tries to push his hips up to encourage him, but is thwarted. Now his neck is exposed, the hand moves a little higher. It does not, in any way, encircle his throat. It is just…there. He experiments with raising himself against it, just to see. It does not yield. It is holding him down. His eyes meet Javert’s; they also do not yield. When he opens his mouth to say something, thumb and forefinger make a circle somewhere below, and work his foreskin gently, snatching protest away. His eyes close under the warm pressure, the pleasure that is like slipping into a hot bath on a cold day; he is sinking into it, no matter that it is edged with discomfort.

‘Yes. Do not speak.’

He does not speak. He gives a small grunt, and pushes his hips up to meet the gentle thrusts. Javert watches his own hand work, and Valjean sees his throat move up and down, feels the motion speed. He reaches forward blindly, looking to free Javert the same way, and is not stopped. He almost suggests they take this upstairs, but he is no position to make demands. The hand holding him down is in control. Not the one on his cock. ‘Javert, please,’ he says, not ashamed of the need he hears.

‘Please?’

He pushes his legs wider apart, and his hips up further; the sweetness of the teasing fingers brings a small moan as he presses his head back into the cushions. His hands fall from Javert’s trousers, leaving them half open, his erection still concealed. ‘Faster.’

‘Like this?’ The touch comes quicker, but shorter, and as light as a feather touch; nothing more than a vibration circling the most sensitive part of his body. Valjean gasps a breath, his stomach heaving; he turns his head away and squeezes his eyes shut. He is held down, and having this pulled from him. He should not like it so much, but the prickling sparks of tension care nothing for _should_ ; they fork outwards from his centre, and light up every nerve as surely as if he were struck by lightning. He can feel his thighs tremble, his body taut, Javert’s fingers masterfully owning him. He wants to say _I will finish_ , and _please stop, I want more_ , but words catch in his throat, and the thought of stopping makes his body scream in protest. He thrusts up instead, forces the circling touch to push around more of him, and then it is done, it is all it takes. He arches, pressing up, his legs and throat caught under Javert, pinioned as he releases in an explosion of white light.

He is gasping when it is done, red-faced and shaken. Javert watches from under lids half-closed in desire, and the hand is still at his throat. He lies still under it, unsure what is allowed, what is happening here. He has never wished he could read his partner’s thoughts until now. Is he a prisoner? Or still a lover, to be pleasured with care? He cannot tell.

He stretches his arms forward without trying to free himself, and finishes the last two buttons on Javert’s trousers. Then his underwear; he does not bother pulling any of it down. He puts his hands on his hips instead, looks him in the eye and presses gently up against the hand holding him. It relents after a moment, but, he realises, is not going to give up its prize. As he sits, and lowers his head, it is joined by the other. Two hands holding him now, one either side of his neck. They do not encircle his throat, though the thought comes to him, as he gently takes Javert into his mouth, that perhaps it is because he is doing _this_. If he were not, would they grip him like an iron chain? The thought makes his heart sink, even as Javert moans quietly above him, and presses his fingers into his skin. He waits, feeling the heft of him on his tongue, the desire so obvious in his thickness, the minute shift of his hips. He wants Valjean to move, but he cannot bring himself to. He licks instead, curls his tongue on him as best he can, flickers at the pleasure point under the head. He gets the impression Javert is forcing himself to hold still; that perhaps he wishes he could take his mouth roughly, and is suffering the enforced gentleness rather than enjoying it. He can feel the tension under his hands, the energy waiting to burst free; and there, _there,_ Javert uses his grip to pull back, and press forward, just a little, just enough to make him groan.

He closes his eyes, and lets himself be moved. He sucks harder, sad without knowing why. It takes no time at all; Javert is shaking in silence, and then he grunts, presses forward, and releases without preamble. The bitter taste of him has always brought a flush of pleasure before. Now, he is not sure what he feels. He only knows he is hoping for…yes. Relief floods him. Javert’s hands move, and one slowly, gently, pulls through his hair. He sighs a breath, slides his mouth free, and rests his forehead on the man’s stomach.

Satisfaction, then? No. His skin itches with drying sweat, and desire. He wants to go to bed. He wants to make love. He wants more than _this_ , whatever it was, even though he should not. He is an ungrateful wretch.

He moves back eventually, even though the stroking hand has not stopped, is something beautiful, to him. He braces himself on straight arms, and only glances up to Javert’s face, nothing more. ‘Cosette is coming early tomorrow,’ he mutters, and looks down. Fingers touch his jaw, the side of his neck, his collarbone, and then fall away.

‘Yes,’ says Javert, and starts to button himself decent. Valjean watches, aware of his own exposure in a way that has never been important until now. He covers himself with the flap of his trousers, and wants to pulls his shirt down, but he is covered in his own mess. He tugs it up over his head instead, and drops it to the floor. Javert does not move off his legs. ‘I will go to my room, then.’

‘I will see you in the morning.’

He is not sure, but there seems something hesitant about Javert now. Perhaps that twitch of his hands comes from another desire to touch. He knows they usually kiss before bed. But nothing this time. Just a moment of silence, then he is freed, and Javert stands silently. ‘Good night, Valjean.’

‘Good night. Sleep well.’

He is left alone. He does not move off the couch for a long time. It is only the thoughts of tomorrow that force him to move, and take him to bed. It no longer feels as though it will be perfect. But as he lies in silence, between sheets too empty and cold, he thinks that maybe it is not so bad. Maybe there is something he can do with what he has learned tonight. He would rather not, but this is Javert. He has long since surrendered to him. To do it once more will be no great hardship.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

The visit with Cosette passes much as he thought it would. He finds himself surprised; his night-time wonderings had produced all manner of scenarios. That he would come downstairs in the morning to find Javert gone; a note making his excuses for the morning; a note saying he would never return; no note at all. He did not expect things to be normal, but indeed they are. There was perhaps a moment over breakfast where Javert looked as though he wanted to say something – but he did not, and he did not ask, and that was that. Now, in the bright morning sun, Cosette laughs and drinks tea, and chides them both on the bareness of their cupboards – ‘I have no idea what two such large gentlemen exist on!’ – Javert looks awkward when Jean-Michel asks him for tales of policing, and only demurs when Valjean prompts him with memories of the Patron Minette. Only the mildest of tales, of course. No blood, no burning. No implication of possible death. Javert can be seen stopping at points, visibly struggling between truth and what is suitable for a boy not quite four. Valjean helps; from his lips, the gang might be little more than rascals, a children’s fable no more dark than the edited tales of Robin Hood, or newspaper fiction of the Musketeers. Perhaps they should tell those stories instead, but Jean-Michel likes the ones with people he knows in them. Valjean has made Cosette, and Marius, and indeed Javert, promise to never tell his own story to the children.

Before she leaves, Cosette turns to Javert and says, ‘will you come for dinner on Saturday evening, Inspector? There is a friend of Marius’ coming – a writer of some sort. He has some interest in police matters; I’m afraid we were forward, and said we knew a man who might help him. I do hope you don’t mind.’

Javert’s face is caught in surprise. Valjean cannot tell at once whether he does mind or not; he no longer works for the police, and renounced even his pension once he was recovered from his fall. Chabouillet insisted that the prefecture cover his hospital expenses, but did not try to stop his resignation. It is the best that could be hoped, probably. Javert never speaks of the matter.

‘I do not know if that would appropriate, Madame,’ he says, in a guarded tone. But Cosette is oblivious to such tones, or pretends she is. Even Valjean is not sure which.

‘Nonsense,’ she says, with a smile that could light Heaven itself. ‘It is just talk he wants, I am sure. On procedure more than anything, from what I understand – ranks, and organisation, that sort of thing.’

‘But what sort of writer? Not one of-‘

‘No. No, Monsieur. No one inappropriate.’

She adjusts baby Charlotte on her lap, and waits with an air of expectation. None of them ever speak of the Baron’s past politics. No one is sure what views he now holds, and it is not important to any of them. Valjean glances between his daughter and partner, and as expected, Javert looks to him rather than Cosette. ‘If your father will come also,’ is what he says eventually, and of course Valjean nods. He could never refuse Cosette anything, and has no intention of starting now. He cannot refuse Javert anything either.

‘Of course,’ says Cosette, and puts her hand on his arm. ‘I apologise. I assumed the two of you would come together. The invitation is for you both, father.’

He clears his throat gently, and smiles at her. ‘Then we will be there.’

Later, when arrangements are made and she has gone, he wonders at her words. Does she assume the two of them go everywhere together? Well, it is true enough, and he should not be surprised she has noticed. He asks it of Javert, without looking at him because he could not if he wanted to. He has disappeared behind another newspaper. A short laugh emerges all the same. ‘She is not as stupid as her husband, I will say that for her.’

‘Do you think she knows more?’

‘That depends. Was she ever educated on the ways in which men may defile each other?’

‘Javert!’

‘Then I expect not. I doubt her husband will have explained. She will expect we are close friends. She is probably glad you have someone watching you in your dotage.’

Eyes peer out at this last, amused. He cannot help but smile back. For a moment, he thinks he imagined the night before, and all those hands at his throat might have implied. ‘Yes, I am a terrible burden. I understand this.’

A snort then, and Javert hides himself once more. ‘Of course you are.’

He is smiling still, but the words remain with him. He contemplates all through lunch, and then later in the garden. His thoughts of the night before take on more shape; the plan he had half-formed in a drowsy state has become sharpened through the day. In one light, the whole idea seems incongruous. On the other, why not? If Javert truly thinks they defile each other, then perhaps much in this relationship needs adjustment. The notion he has formulated will not fix everything, but it may give Javert what he wants. And he will give Javert anything he can. Everything he can.

 

*

 

At bedtime, just before the candle is blown out, Javert kisses him. He kisses him every night, so it is no surprise, but there is something lingering about this one, something that makes his breath hitch. He examines the man’s eyes, looking for a hint, but there is nothing.

‘You were quiet this afternoon. Normally when she comes, you laugh all day.’

‘I am just a little tired.’

‘Is that all it is?’

‘Yes, of course.’

Javert’s eyes do not leave his face. He looks back, hiding nothing. Another kiss, and he is freed. ‘Good night, then.’

‘Good night.’

He waits in the dark. It is a ridiculous plan. But it is also not. Yesterday afternoon, he could not stop thinking about why Javert has no interest in touching him. Yesterday evening, Javert could not keep his hands off him. He would prefer the latter to the former, at least every now and again. So, he will do what he can.

When he is sure Javert is asleep, he rises silently and takes his clothes from the chair. He dresses quickly in the spare bedroom, and makes sure to avoid the stairs that creak too loudly. Javert is a sound sleeper most of the time, except on the nights he cannot sleep at all. He does not want a confrontation now, or this will never work. At the bottom of the stairs, he listens – no sound from above. Satisfied, he takes up his hat and cane, then some money from the drawer in the sitting room. And one last thing – a note left on the mantel, propped  against one of the silver candlesticks.

 

_I am somewhere in Paris, Inspector. You have three days to find me._

 

*

 

He has resolved only two things in his mind. One; that he will not cheat – he will not do anything he did not do before, with the exception of using the convent because he would never cheapen the place with this game. And two; he will accept the consequences, no matter what they are. Because while it seems as if Javert wants to hunt, there is always the possibility that he will not partake at all. Already he finds himself worrying that the note was too vague – will it be taken as a light-hearted challenge, as it was meant to be? Or will it be dismissed as foolish? He will be embarrassed if he returns home in three days to find Javert sitting at their table, thinking him silly. But if that happens, at least he might be able to explain why he thought it was necessary to try. The worst would be if Javert raised an eyebrow at him, and said, _three days, or what?_ He would have to admit that he has not thought that part through. If he has to return home on his own, would he ask Javert to forfeit something? Of course not, unless words are something he has to win. And if the man chooses not to play at all – which seems more likely with every step he takes from home – then why should he give anything up anyway?

But then, he cannot forget the look of him last night. The energy he gained, simply from watching that chase. It could not have been more clear how much he wished he was part of it. And the result…well, Valjean is still not sure what to make of it. Would he want him more if he could subdue him? Perhaps it is all he wants, but simply cannot ask for it. So now, he may have it. If he is caught – and he fully expects to be – then he will do whatever he is asked. Ordered. At least for one night. Perhaps it will give the man what he needs, and in the process, what _they_ need.

His footsteps take him towards the Latin Quarter, which is not so far. He may move further tomorrow, when Javert has found the note. The logical thing, both to hide and be found, would be to return to the Gorbeau House, or somewhere in its vicinity. He does not relish the idea, but he will be in that area anyway. He will not cheat. He will act as he did before. Javert no longer has the resources of the police available to him – and besides, he does _want_ to be found. Or rather, he wants Javert to run him down.

His cane taps easily on the stones as he walks, he keeps his back straight, he looks around him. It already feels a little as it used to; a sensation of having his ears pricked at all times, in case a noise from behind signalled danger. But there is also a faint regret that it has come to this at all; it is almost midnight, and the air has a chill. Valjean has always done what was necessary, no matter the discomfort it caused – but he is not sure this will work, or is necessary at all, and now he is walking in the dead of night when he could be in bed next to his partner.

Well. He has made the choice. He has played the first move. Whether Javert takes up the game is his decision alone; he can do nothing more than see his part through. And seeing as he is up, and out, he may as well distribute some of the coin in his pocket. There is no reason the poor should not profit from his choices.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

 

He wakes with an ache in his chest. It has not been a good night. He cannot remember why he thought this was a good idea.

The inn he chose to stay at – and there was no reason not to choose an inn, as Javert would not know he was gone yet – is serviceable enough, though the patrons were loud into the small hours, and disturbed him. The food is plain, but filling, and if it is not quite clean, what in Paris is? He sits at a small table at the back of the room, out of view of the window. His coffee is cooling in front of him, and early as it is, there is still a constant noise from the street. The world of service rests little; the sound of carts rattling by is a backdrop to the whistles of the chimney boys, the butcher’s delivery men calling at doors, jugs of milk clanking together as they are unloaded. Underneath it all, under his feet, the quiet thunder of coal spilling down the cellar chute, to be scraped up and tossed into storage bins. The world shouts all around and he, sitting alone with his hands resting on the silver knob of his cane, is adrift for the first time in years.

‘Some breakfast, monsieur?’

The serving girl is thin, as plain as the brown walls, but with eyes that make him think of Cosette when she was small. He smiles at her, and shakes his head slowly. ‘No, thank you.’ She smiles back, uncertainly, as if not used to such a gesture from a customer. He supposes there are few who notice her overmuch.

‘I’ll run along then. Got to fetch the milk in before the students start coming. You going to want the room again tonight? Only the master likes to know, so’s we can run the broom ‘round.’

He hesitates. This place is in the right area. The Gorbeau tenement is a five minute walk away; he can still see the streets in his mind, as though he passed along them daily. ‘I will pay for another night.’ He may not use it, but there is no point in inconveniencing the owners here. He passes coins to her, and jerks his head as the door bangs open; for a moment, his heart leaps to his throat at the sight of a man in black. But it is just a student, followed by five or six friends, already calling for food. The girl takes on a harried expression, and Valjean stands. ‘Where is your kitchen? I will bring the milk in for you.’

‘Monsieur, you cannot! You are a gentleman…’

The students sit, laughing loudly. One calls her by name. Valjean picks his hat up from the table, and looks at her calmly. She seems torn,  but demurs after another shout from the boys.

It is not, he muses, as he lifts jugs and carries them, as though he can go out in daylight. He never did that before. If Javert is playing, he will not even look for him before night. He may as well make himself useful.

 

*

 

In the late afternoon, he sits in his room, and watches the walls. The sinking feeling of last night, as he walked away from his home, has settled into him and makes him feel as though he does not have the energy to rise at all. Of course this time is different. Javert is not a policeman any more. This is a game. But more than that; he does not have Cosette. If he is to be a fugitive once more, she should be here with him, lighting his life, reminding him of the purpose of staying hidden. It disquiets him in a way he cannot understand; this is not _real_ , he reminds himself, over and over again. Nothing about it should be unsettling. At worst, Javert will be cross, or roll his eyes at him for suggesting it. At best, he will find him here, or in another room, and be full of life and pleased with him for noticing their problem, and taking steps to fix it. He wants him to be happy. He has seemed content at least, these three years past – but being content is not the same as being fulfilled, as both of them are well aware. He finds himself wondering why Javert simply could not say he was not being satisfied, because does he think he would ignore such a problem? He never would.

His thoughts take him to last month. An afternoon of heavy work in the garden, clearing some branches that had fallen after a gale. They needed sawing, and storing to dry for the fire. There were weeds growing everywhere after rain followed a burst of spring sun, and the grass was unruly. Javert had volunteered his help, which was a rare thing; the man cares little for plants, and appreciates the garden only because Valjean loves it so.

He closes his eyes, and drifts. Is that where this had all started? A day in the sun, both of them hot and sweating after a morning of labour? He had gone in to get a jug of water; he can see the scene as though living it over. Walking out of the house to see Javert on his knees, pulling inexorably on a stubborn root. Light shone down on him from a gap in the trees, glowing over the shirt stuck to the hard muscle of his back. He stood, transfixed by the push and pull of his arms, the way his strong hands closed over the thing and gave it no option but to yield. He had planted a foot flat, and used his whole body to subdue the sinew of this ancient tree; muscles hard in his working trousers, his flat stomach contracted and taut, his chest pulling out as the root gave in and came quietly. He had been panting softly, his skin shining with moisture – and the stupidest thing was Valjean’s undoing that day. He remembers it more vividly than anything in the month since; a casual gesture of Javert’s hand across his loosened collar, leaving a smear of dirt on his neck. Just that; just a simple thing. His long, clever fingers, brown with earth, pulling along the damp skin by his throat. Javert was oblivious; to Valjean, it was practically obscene. It called to him, a siren song of the body, _look at this flesh,_ and look he did; the fingerprint of touch leaving a trail that invited the eye to the open cleave of his shirt, the dusting of fine hair along the hard plains of his chest; the way he heaved a breath, and rested his other hand so casually on the inside of his thigh, as though framing what Valjean felt was so frequently denied. _Look at this flesh, that you have tasted. Look at this man, who does not want your touch._

He had turned, light-headed with arousal, his throat dry and palms wet. The water was forgotten; in something like a dream, he had gone upstairs. He thinks he might have had his eyes closed the whole time; certainly he remembers seeing nothing of his surroundings. Only Javert, breathing hard, smeared with earth and with his hands on himself – this was all, to him. He certainly had his eyes closed when he was sprawled on the pillows of their bed, working himself frantically, biting on a knuckle to hold back the cries. How long had it been that time? It does not matter. Long enough to bring a need that almost hurt.

His cheeks are red thinking about it. Embarrassment, rather than the arousal which lingers at the memory of Javert that day. It remains the only incident -  in a long life - that he has been caught pleasuring himself, and this from someone who spent nineteen years in jail. Because Javert had come looking, of course. Had caught him writhing on their bed, his prick on the verge of explosion. Oh Lord, his face at the sight. Oh Lord, the way they had stared at each other; one in shock, the other too shameless not to speak his name. Oh Lord, the way Javert had taken him.

He cannot bear the memory. It is not decent for a man to want so much; so much worse when he is given it, and more. The afternoon from that point is no longer clear. A predatory gleam stands out, a yank on his wrist to make him stop touching. A kiss that could have ended the world, and then…then. He swallows hard, heat licking the inside of his thighs like flame on nerves of wire. He has never been taken like that. Javert picked his seams apart with tongue and lips, slowly, until every breath was a sob, his words nothing but pleas. And then unravelled him without mercy, an arm hooked under his shoulder, locking him half-twisted, a hand on his head to hold him down while he took him, and took him, and made existence disappear into incoherence. Until the end; that single point when there is nothing left but the clarity of love.

He remembers the hour after more clearly than the act itself. Javert had stayed in him while the universe rebuilt itself, stroking the shoulder he had bent to hold him down, and kissing the back of his neck. He had never felt more loved. Mortified at having been caught in such a position. But loved.

And now…now he is not sure. Now he thinks that perhaps he was subdued. That perhaps Javert had caught his convict in the act, and was making him pay. That the way he was pinned was not for the purpose of giving everything he was begging for, but to satisfy some other silent, long-held urge. At the time, he thought only of the warmth of the body pressed to his, the smell of grass, and soil, and sex; the caress over his screaming muscles. Javert’s whiskers had tickled his back when he kissed him, lips soft and wet on his neck. He had asked him if he was all right, in a tone he remembers as shy. Shy, and pleased. Satisfied. They had spent that night pressed together, he remembers that too. He had woken with Javert breathing into his neck.

He sighs now, and runs a hand through his hair. The heat of arousal is dying off, untended to. The room swims back into view; lit well enough, but plain, lifeless. Everything is brown. His memories feel sullied. That afternoon is sinking under suspicion; what had felt beautiful is now curling in on itself, like an autumn leaf on a dying branch. The colour is fading. Soon, it will fall.

 

*

 

He returns to the inn after all, somewhere around midnight. His fingers are slow with cold; though the days are warm, the nights are chill, and there was a man who was in need of gloves. He stops by the fire in the serving room, holding them out to the flames until they ache, and start to tingle. It is stuffy, still half-full of young men at their wine and brandy, some singing in the corner. His stomach is empty and growling, but it is likely too late for supper. He wonders whether Javert was out there this evening. He has felt eyes on his back all night. He stares into the flames now, and is aware of how familiar this sensation is; to pull into himself, to block out thoughts of who might be watching. To know that a hand may fall on his shoulder at any moment, but to force himself not to think of it. To stand in a room of people, and feel himself entirely alone. How quickly the mind reverts. How good he is at being hunted.

There is a touch at his elbow. He blinks, jerking the arm closer into his side. But it is only the serving girl from this morning.

‘I set you a bowl of stew aside, Monsieur,’ she says, with a face hopeful of attention. ‘If you are hungry.’

‘Thank you. I am.’

‘And wine, Monsieur? We’ve got some good bottles somewhere, if they’re to your taste.’

‘Water, thank you. You are kind to have thought of me.’

She smiles, and leaves for the kitchen. He considers taking the food to his room – it is what he would have done, before, had he ever eaten in an inn. But he will not. He is already watching the door, something in his chest yearning for it to open. It does not.

The food is set before him carefully; stew, bread that was fresh this morning, a curl of butter. He smiles his thanks, but she does not leave right away. She leans down instead, and adjusts the bread plate, even though it is well enough where it is.

‘There was a man,’ she mutters, soft as vapour. He almost cannot hear her over the singing. ‘He came looking for someone as looks like you. Gave a different name, though.’

His heart is surely not beating. It is smothered under relief so strong, his head feels weak. ‘What name?’

‘Fauch…something. I didn’t hear; he was speaking to my papa. Didn’t so much as look at me. He checked there wasn’t a Madeleine here, either.’

He has chosen another name, at random. It is what he would have done before. ‘And what did your father say?’

‘There was no one here under that name, least not in the ledger. An’ he hasn’t seen your face. I kept quiet. You’ve been kind. Thought I’d better tell, though.’

He nods at her, and silently puts five francs into her hand. She looks like she might cry. ‘I will leave after supper. My thanks to you…what is your name?’

‘Marie, Monsieur.’

‘Marie. You have done me great service.’ He could break into a grin, but does not. Javert is playing along. He will, also. But when the girl walks away, he cannot resist calling her back. ‘How did he look?’

She wrinkles her nose as the young do, expressive but still furtive for his sake. ‘Great ugly thing, he was. Scared the life out of me when I first laid eyes on him. But then I saw he weren’t no gent, so it was alright.’

Yes. Well, Javert would find it hard to pass as a gentleman, true enough. But only on scrutiny from someone well versed in these matters, which Marie is likely not. ‘He was dressed as a workman?’

‘Oh no, Monsieur. Proper suited. But gents have men to make sure they don’t walk out with their buttons done up wrong, don’t they? Not him.’

He lets her go then. He does not want his astonishment to show. And under that, for the first time, a silent tug of fear on his sleeve. He eats his supper with an eye still on the door, and collects the few travelling possessions from his room in practiced silence. He is not sure where to go next, but he should not stay here. What if Javert does not come back?

 

*

 

It is another uneasy night. The street is dark, and few doors are open. Groups of young men break the air with their ease and camaraderie, which masks the moving shadows in the alleys they pass, black holes that watch them walk, and count the coins in their pocket by the way their trousers hang. Valjean watches too, in a daze from the knowledge that he is being tracked once more, and from being unclear as to how he should feel about it. He is relieved, still. He dislikes the creeping fear, still. Reminding himself it is not real has stopped helping.

The bed for tonight is cold, and uneven, and something digs into his back. It is another inn, closer to the heart of these slums. It is quiet at least, but the quiet is that of menace; the feeling that people _are_ speaking downstairs, and in their rooms, but are choosing not to raise their voices above a stifled whisper. He can only guess at why. He had pressed a coin into a reaching hand by the front entrance; it had been snatched, and his boot spat upon. Such is the way of the wretched. He does not blame the beggar. A man acts as circumstances dictate; more than once this night, he has found himself standing under the shade of a tree, loathe to cross the street in case it brought him into the light.

The irony is not lost on him. A man so long hunted, wanting the hand to fall on his shoulder. But that is the change brought by love, he thinks. Is it not? Wanting to be wanted. Wanting to be found. And if you are greedy, as he must be, wanting to be desired. Even, perhaps, if that desire only comes when you steal away, and have to be caught.

He sighs, and turns to his side, curls into himself under the thin blanket that smells of dust. _Lord, let him find me_ , he thinks, blinking into the dark. _And this once, let him not let me go_.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws hands up* I have given up trying to stick to chapter limits, because I suck at them. One more after this then, where all the good stuff will be.
> 
> **ETA:** Should have said when I posted - this chapter includes a total bastardisation of geography, I expect, and I have no idea what did/would have happened to the Cafe Musain three years on. Also, the students and police fighting on the street is entirely fabricated, unless it's not, in which case go me for guessing right.

 

 

It is the third day. He knows it before he wakes. The knowledge permeates the nightmare that has plagued him all night, drifting into it and then out, only to be recalled as he struggles to lift himself from his troubled sleep. The third day. Whatever happens, this will be finished by midnight. Even as his eyes flicker open and shut, he is aware of the relief of it; the fear, and the trepidation.

But they are glances only, his tired mind intent on keeping him away from wakefulness. He is in the park again, by the pond, and it is he holding a clanking bag in his arms. A whistle rents the air, over and over. And it is Javert behind him, Javert in front. No matter how many times he pulls himself awake, hands reach up and drag him back down into the depths of it. The path never gets shorter; the gardens never end. Javert never reaches him, but the fear never goes away. They are stuck in an eternal circle of chase and run, terror and excitement. He cannot get away. He is not sure he wants to.

It is only the lightening of the sky which forces reality on him, enough to allow himself to say _this is not real_ and open his eyes properly. They ache, and he feels he has not slept at all. His heart is beating too fast in his chest, and muscles complain in his jaw and arms, a sign of tension he cannot let go of. He brings a hand to his face, and wipes sweat off it. Just a nightmare. And he will see Javert today. He tells himself this, and waits for the usual rush of happiness that comes when he thinks of him. He has to search to feel it; not, he is sure, because he loves him any less. But the last three days have been strange in ways he was not expecting.

He pulls himself from the bed, and sits half-dressed in a chair. He cannot put his finger on the exact point yesterday where he slipped; when the bright, new memories of happiness and light sank under the experience of twenty years in hiding. He only knows there is dismay that he succumbed so fast – that he succumbed at all, because he truly thought he had put it behind him. They were difficult years; yes. But he was sustained by Cosette’s love through them; how is it that Javert’s cannot keep him through more than a day? Perhaps because it is he, Valjean, who has thrown it into doubt. If he had not started this, he would not have to sit here alone, and feel it is right. He would not have to spend his days inside, and feel the restriction close around him like a blanket on a winter’s night; something that fits, even if he dislikes its necessity. And those breaths of air at night, not fresh like spring daylight, but cooled by the moon and turning the world indistinct, and unsure, and dangerous…is there a thrill in it? Yes, but not the type to enjoy. It is the familiarity of fear.

He says, aloud, ‘I will be home tomorrow.’ He does not feel it. Their house, with its books, and  greenery, and Javert behind a newspaper – it does not seem real. The smell of rubbish in the street, dogs and rats vying for morsels, hands shivering their way upwards towards his coins – that feels real. The feeling of being watched everywhere he goes, as though his real name, his prison number is stitched across the back of his coat for the world to see – it feels real. Even if those things mean nothing to anyone, there is still a legal system that would care. Care enough to chop off his head, at least.

He runs his hands up his neck in frustration, locks his fingers at the back, and lets his head fall forward. He knows of men who were paroled from the galleys, only to return a few months later. They were asked by their chain-mates why they could not stay out of trouble, and were told they had stolen again on purpose, or found some petty crime. The world did not want them, and more than that, they could find no ease in it. At least as a convict, they would die with people who understood.

But no one understood. The men who had not been paroled thought they were stupid, and beat them for wasting their chance. To be granted freedom, and then throw it away! Even worse, to come back and admit such a thing. These were the worst of men. They inspired jealousy when they were released, they destroyed hope when they returned. Because if these men could not survive in the world, what chance any of the others? Valjean had sneered. He would not fail, should they ever let him go. He hated them enough to know he would not come back, and would not let the world take advantage of him.

But now, all these decades later, he thinks he finally understands. A man may not enjoy coming back to what he knows; a man may hate it, and despise himself for allowing it. But the known quantity of it, the way to behave and measure the hours in the day…

…no, he must not think this. It is familiar, of course. There is no way it could not be. But he does not dream of being secluded. Not on his own, at least: seclusion with another is a beautiful thing. He and Javert do not see many people, and do not desire to, but it is a _choice_ , of sorts. He cannot use his real name, and Javert has no use for other people at all. They are still an ex-con, and an ex-guard dog, noticed by society only as people to shut doors on. But it does not matter. He knows he does not care, beyond the potential problems for Cosette, and while Javert probably did care once, he never dwells on it now, or so he says. But there; he does not say much. He could be thinking anything. Valjean has not asked.

He must stop this. He must collect his things, and then pass the day. He will spend the evening giving alms, and then make his way home. The three days finish at midnight. It is Friday. Tomorrow, he will probably have to explain himself, and then they will see Cosette in the evening for dinner. He can forget he did this. He finds it probable that Javert has stopped looking; he will likely be waiting at home by this point. Apart from the one enquiry passed onto him by Marie, he has had no indication – beyond his own paranoia – that he has been followed, or seen at all. And really, he should not have expected different. Javert has always been clear that his break from the law was absolute, and would admit no exceptions. This is not a matter of law, but he would still have to act as a policeman to fulfil it. What right has he, Valjean, to impose it on him? It has been a selfish act. He must ask forgiveness, and hope he has not broken anything in two. Javert’s trust, once lost, will not be regained.

He forces himself to stand, and finish dressing. He has to brush small spiders off his coat. The walls are bare in this house, and made of wood underneath the thin plaster. There are bulges here and there – from rain, or something nesting in the spaces, he does not know. The whitewash is streaked as if the building cries, and there are no rugs on the floor. Everything smells damp. Put a few dozen men in this room, throw some salt in the air, and it could be Toulon again.

No. Ridiculous. It is not that bad. But his eyes have closed anyway, despair welling up through the empty spaces of him, making him full. Why did he do this? He has no idea.

 

*

 

Darkness falls. He has been waiting for it. As soon as he can no longer see the street below, he slips out of the room, and then the building. The door spits him out into an alley, and from there he turns left, instead of right onto the roadway that holds more people. In this direction, there is a smaller road that curves around behind these buildings to join the larger one further up; he will walk it to conceal which of the houses he has come from, even though it does not matter now. He does not think about it. It is second nature.

There are few people out walking. And yet, the hair prickles on the back of his neck as soon as he steps into the open. His pulse speeds at once, and he has to fight the urge to turn around. He knows better than that. His hat is down far enough, his coat shapeless enough to hide the outline of his body. There is little he can do about his limp, but it is only faint, and there is no light. Besides, many men limp. They cannot all be convicts.

On the main road, the feeling of being watched subsides. He crosses, and slips down another alley that takes him to the heart of the slum. Ragged bundles line the stones already; he stops at the first, and bends, and is not upright again for another fifty feet. Many of these are children, and his heart breaks for them. He should have brought more money. His pockets are far too light for this early in the evening, but there is nothing to be done about it now, so he moves on.

The alley opens on to a square. There are policemen in the centre of it, an old Commissaire, and two younger Inspectors. A set of eyes from their pack rakes over him, and his throat tightens over at once. His eyes lower, and again the urge takes him to act other than he should. This time, his legs want to move faster, or perhaps turn around and go back the way he has come. He takes a deep breath, and refuses to yield. A step, and another. He is dead. There is no reason they should notice him. He is simply an old man, out walking in a bad coat.

He makes the opposite corner of the square when, ‘Ho, there!’ rings out. He does not stop; his target is the alley only ten feet ahead. But he does glance left and right. He is not the only person looking furtive, but eyes are not turned his way. A small group of men are watching the policemen with a forced casual air, and they look the way the policemen are looking. Something behind, from the direction he came from. He notices some eyebrows go up, and refuses to look. And then, the eyes turn his way.

He does not stop, he does not think. He walks faster, and has to push past a burly man staggering out of the alley. He pauses only to put a coin in a reaching hand, then keeps going. Why were they looking at him? Surely the only people who would know him in this area are acquaintances of the Thenardiers – but that woman is dead, and her husband in America. Most of the gang is in prison or dead, and would they really remember him still? And they would not do a thing under the eye of the police, who surely cannot have been looking for him either.

There are raised voices somewhere behind. Trepidation turns to real fear, thick and raw in his throat. This was supposed to be a harmless game. Now he has exposed himself. But still, he forces himself to slow. He must not act in a suspicious way. He must not be stopped to be asked why he is running. He is just an old man out for a walk, nothing more.

It is quieter in another alley. He leans his back on cold bricks, and breathes. He can hear nothing out of the ordinary, only the laughing of men in a café on the other side of the wall, and a few voices begging for coin. He fills their hands, a cold sweat on his forehead.

‘Thanks to you, monsieur,’ comes a voice from under a hood. ‘But you should move on now.’

‘Oh?’

‘Fights here last night. Students again. One of ‘em died; there’ll be trouble later.’

Ah. He straightens, and moves to the outlet onto the street. Yes, of course. He has come onto the Place Saint-Michel. Although the Café Musain has stood derelict since the night of the uprising, it stands to reason it could remain a focal point for student activity. He looks at it from the safety of his alley mouth, fear replaced by sadness. The hair rises on his neck once more. He wonders, vaguely, how many bullets are still lodged in the bricks of these houses. Whether blood still crusts the edges of the drains, mistaken for rust as it dried to copper flakes. This street holds the ghosts of many fine young men. Perhaps they are watching him now, still clothed in their bloodied rags. He hopes not. He hopes they have found peace Above.

‘Monsieur.’

The beggar’s voice raises querulously. He turns to see a nod in the direction of the way he has come; the street is filling there, voices calling out. Some are still laughing, but some are not – the café is emptying its load onto the cobbles, cobbles that have already seen too much blood. There is a whistle in the distance, and their voices calm for a second, and then raise in response. Yes, there will  certainly be trouble tonight.

He nods his thanks for the warning, and slips into the street. He turns his back on the Musain, and moves down the road he once saw soldiers march up. It is an hour until midnight. Perhaps it is time to go home. There is nothing inside him, and nothing that interests him here. People are starting to swirl around – most of them young men, muttering about last night’s murder – but he cannot focus on their faces. He is sorry for their loss, but he cannot hold on to thoughts of their politics, not at the moment. The thought of more death sickens him, and he does not have to be a part of it this time. He can slide between them and disappear; he is invisible, unnoticed, a man with no mission. He does not belong in their crowds.

He rounds the corner, and is faced with a troop of policemen on horseback. Surprise stops him short, and a voice directed at him renders him mute. ‘Move along there!’ He nods, and does as ordered, and turns onto the next street he can. It is more narrow, and also full of people. He has to set his shoulders to not get pushed aside. There comes a sound of breaking glass from somewhere in front – a bottle or a window, he cannot tell, but a cheer goes up all the same. The crowd begins to surge forward. Valjean feels his heart start to thump in his chest, and without thinking, pulls back. He does not want to be swept along. The best he can do is retrace his steps and find another way around.

Police are moving up the Place Saint-Michel. He is told once more to move out of the way, so he quickens his pace and is enveloped into another small crowd. It is not organised, nor moving far, but it is loud. From the midst of it, he almost thinks he hears someone say his name, but that cannot be. He pushes on, trying to make for the side-street that once brought him to a barricade, dressed as a guard. If he goes that way, home is not far. It cannot be long until midnight.

Suddenly, gunfire. It is not close to hand, but on the next avenue over – it does not matter. Voices rise as one, and what was a mingling of people a second ago, becomes a cohesive mass at once. Bodies close around him and start to push; he has to push back to avoid getting taken in the direction of what is surely about to become a riot. Through it all, his one clear thought is that he hopes Javert has stayed at home.

A bottle flies overhead, and smashes into a wall. A cheer goes up, almost masking the sound of horses being made to advance. He is going against the swell of people – he is sworn at, and pushed, but does not stop. There is an impression again, of hearing his name, but it is lost when an elbow catches his cheek and the flare of pain drives thought away. He can smell wine of the breath of these men, and can practically taste the fever in the air. At least it is not cold any longer, though he would take any amount of chill over this. He pushes again, and can see the edges of the crowd. It surges then, pouring towards the street that will let it join its comrades under fire. He is dragged along, clawing towards freedom but being disallowed; a sudden image comes to him, of what Javert and Cosette will say about him if he gets caught and hurt in this tonight. That he could survive the National Guard unloading cannons at him, but cannot save himself walking through a crowd of students.

He pushes again. Men scream in his face – at the police, but he is facing the wrong way, so he catches their ire. Boots scrape down his shins, and hands shove him, trying to turn him around because surely he means to go with them? He resists the attempts, and makes a last ditch effort as the police draw their horses up to their rear, and start to herd them down the alley. If they are pushed all together, they will be surrounded. He will be caught with them. And if there is already gunfire, someone is shooting – the students will fight back. Only the Lord knows what will happen then.

He grits his teeth, and stands his ground. It is no good. They are pushing, and pushing…he has no choice but to let himself be turned, futility weighing in his limbs. He has no idea how he is going to explain this, supposing he is not arrested by then.

But he will not have to wait that long it seems. He closes his eyes for a moment as the crowd takes him, and this time cannot tell himself he imagines the ‘ _Fauchelevent!’_ that booms under the higher pitches of young men. He does not see where it comes from. He feels only a leap of his heart, before something hits him in the side, hard, and _thrusts_ ; the momentum carries him sideways, breaks through the last few students and out into open air. Open, until he cannons into the side of a building, and is held there by strong, angry hands.

He does not open his eyes. But he does smile.

‘I have no idea what you can find to smile about. What in the _devil’s name_ do you think you are _doing!?_ ’

Javert is furious. Javert is _worried_. Javert…looks absolutely dreadful, he sees, when he opens his eyes to look on him. His hat is gone, his coat is filthy. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his skin is white. His hair is in turns unruly, and plastered to his head in places – he looks both exhausted, and alive with fury. His eyes are practically on fire with it. Valjean swallows, weak with relief, and dares to touch his arm. Not six feet to their side, a police horse ushers the back of the crowd into its imprisonment between buildings.

‘Javert.’

‘Not ‘Inspector’, then?’ It is snapped out, and a hand takes his arm and _pulls_. He allows this, allows himself to be directed to the alley at the rear of the Musain. A muffled choke of a laugh comes to mind. What a place to choose.

They face each other once more, except this time it is him leaning against the wall. His breath is heavy in his chest, emotions clanging against each other inside of him, each one unable to win dominance. Relief, yes. Happiness, yes. Shame, of course. The overwhelming, blood-warming rush that comes from having been close to danger, but now finding safety. ‘You found me.’

‘Found…of _course_ I found you, you foolish man! I found you two days ago! I want to know what you are doing here, in the middle of what will probably be…for the love of _God_ , Valjean, I do not understand you!’

Hands grip his lapels, and give one shake. ‘Fauchelevent,’ he says, dimly, weak with the obvious truth that Javert is scared. He could never keep emotion off his face. He is scared. He has frightened him.

Of all the scenarios he has painted in his head, he did not imagine that one.

‘Fauchelevent,’ says Javert, fairly spitting the word. ‘What-‘

‘-yes,’ he says back, dazed, and wraps his fingers into the sides of Javert’s coat, and pulls him close. ‘And you have caught me.’

He kisses him then, out in the open be hanged. Javert allows it for only a second, but it is enough. The feel of his lips brings him to reality as nothing else could. The despair of earlier starts to drain; the feeling of belonging to this world of shadows begins to melt away. He wants nothing more than to rest his head on the man’s shoulder, and imagine it all to be gone.

Javert steps back. And then in again, and puts a hand on the back of his head. His eyes are dangerously alive, still full of anger. He smells vaguely of mud, and strongly of exhaustion. ‘You are a ridiculous man. I insist – _insist_ – you stop this foolishness at once, and come home.’

He cannot help the grin. It is so sudden, so wide, that even Javert’s anger is checked by it. He sees a flicker over the man’s stern face, and touches a tired, soft, finger to his cheek. ‘Yes. I will come home.’

‘I hope you are ready to explain yourself.’

‘Yes. That too, I believe.’

He hopes Javert is ready to explain himself also. But it can wait a few minutes longer. This is a conversation not meant for the open air, and certainly not _this_ open air. He has had his fill of revolution. He is more than happy to leave it at his back, and turn his face toward home.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kind of sorry about this. I'm travelling this weekend, and have to have this finished now as I'm busy all week. So I'm pretty sure I haven't done it justice, and there are probably things that aren't clear, or are too clear, and bleurgh, it's not refined at all. I apologise! I had meant to try and get it right, but simply don't have time. If there are questions at the end, I'll happily fill in the blanks. In the meantime, thanks to everyone who read, and especially those who left kudos and comments. <3

 

 

They walk home in silence. The parts of Paris not threatened have, as they always do, closed their shutters and gone to bed. They see few people, but say nothing, and simply walk side by side. Valjean dare not look Javert’s way, and he scarcely needs to; anger radiates off him, clips his walk, forces his back straight as a poker. He himself simply feels tired, his cheek, and sides, and leg, aching from the strikes they took. Everything feels a dream.

They enter their house without words, shed coats, and canes, and Valjean his hat. And then, they stand. Javert is the first to speak. ‘I will heat water,’ he says, in clipped tones. ‘If you do not need to bathe, I do.’

Valjean nods, but Javert has already turned away. He stands until he is alone, and then looks to the floor. There are few thoughts left in him, as if he has overrun his capacity while alone. He offers a silent prayer for the safety of the people outside tonight, policeman, and student, and civilian alike, and walks through to the sitting room. Everything appears as it did when he left, as though Javert has not been here at all. The only difference is the note, which lies screwed into a ball on the table. He picks it up, and smooths it out. Even his own handwriting looks as though it belongs to someone else. He can remember writing it, but the reasons for it have detached themselves. It is strange enough simply to stand in his own house and feel freedom course its way back into his life, like water finding cracks in a half-built dam. It fills him, washing away fear. That kind of fear, at least. He still does not know what Javert will say.

He makes tea. He opens the rear door, and looks onto the garden. Everything here belongs to them, and is safe. Tomorrow, he will see his daughter. He closes his eyes and thanks God, over and over again, losing minutes to the simple joy of gratitude.

‘Valjean. Come here.’

He closes the door, and turns. Javert has placed the bath in front of the fire, and stands only in his undergarments, pouring the last pans of water in. Flamelight licks his skin and turns him golden; in the momentary absence of heartbeat, Valjean remembers what all this was for. It does not burn as it did three days ago; he cannot push aside his own unease at the speed at which he sank back to his loneliness – how miserable it was, how much it fit him – but it is easier to recall why he felt the need for it.

He does not allow himself to think further. He removes everything from the top half of his body, and lets his braces hang down. Then he steps up behind Javert, and wraps his arms around him. Even as the man stiffens, he presses his lips to the back of his shoulder. ‘I am sorry.’

Javert does not move. It takes so long for him to yield that Valjean nearly lets go. Nerves build the longer Javert holds himself aloof – but there, eventually, a deep breath, and the slightest softening of his stance. ‘The water will get cold.’

‘Of course.’ He lays another gentle kiss on his skin, and steps back. ‘You go first.’

Javert nods, unfastens his underwear and lets it drop. Valjean watches him sink into the bath with obvious satisfaction, and goes to make him some tea and heat more water. When he comes back, the man is scrubbing at his hair with soap, furiously, as though he is afraid he has caught lice. He sets the tea down and makes a gesture to help, but Javert scowls at him, so he sits in the armchair facing him instead. Only when Javert has rinsed his hair three times, and scrubbed himself thoroughly with the brush, does he relent enough to speak.

‘Well?’

Ah.

Valjean resists the urge to look down at his hands.

It occurs to him for the first time that Javert has shown no signs whatsoever of having enjoyed hunting him down.

He looks at his hands. ‘I thought it was something you would like.’

Javert blinks. He has a rag in his hands, and starts to soap himself all over again, almost thoughtfully. And then; ‘You disappear from our bed in the middle of the night. You leave a _note_ , and one that gives no indication of your state of mind, or motivation for your actions. You take nothing but some money, and give no idea of what _you have three days to find me_ even means – what would you have done if I had not, Valjean? For that matter, shall we discuss you wandering directly into a massed street fight, and one that has been building all week? Did you even _notice_?’

He had not noticed. He did not realise Javert had either. He shakes his head, pulling an exasperated sigh from the bath. ‘Of course you did not. Why would you?’

‘I am not ignorant, Javert.’

‘You are far from ignorant. You simply have your eyes lodged in your heart, and can see nothing else. Except when you decide to disappear. I am not Cosette, Valjean. You cannot simply declare an absence, and then go. In fact, no, I am wrong. If you did that, I would understand better. But to invite me to come and look for you? It is too far.’

‘I am sorry. Truly.’

Javert’s anger makes his head hurt, and his embarrassment grow. He should have thought this through more carefully. But he remains sure he only made the decision because he thought it would make the man happy, and is that not a good motivation for doing something? It is hard to stay entirely chagrined. He is sitting in front of a warm fire, in his home, with Javert. There will be no more chasing, and no more getting caught in street fights.

‘You said you found me two days ago.’

‘Of course I did. I am insulted you would think it would take any longer. No, do not pull that face at me. I know you better now than I did then, and I knew you would not be able to go to the convent. You were not at the Baron’s house. If you wanted me to find you, you would stay to areas we had crossed paths before. And, of course, you have your need to feed the hungry. You would not miss the chance to do that.’

Valjean is blinking. ‘You went to Cosette’s house?’

‘Of course. It was the first place I went – not that I thought you would be there, but I had to leave a message so that if you did show your face, you would know to come home at once.’ Javert is scowling again. ‘I had to speak with the fool Baron, so as not to worry your girl. Do _not_ make me do so again.’

‘I will not. I truly do apologise, Javert.’ He is smiling, though. The thought of Javert voluntarily speaking with Marius is worth more than gold.

‘You have not yet explained a thing.’ Javert stands abruptly, throws his soapy rag down, and steps out of the bath. Valjean holds out a towel, which he takes without thanks. ‘I do not know if I care to hear any of it, in any case. You have vanished for days, I have barely slept since, you nearly got yourself killed-‘

‘-I did not-’

‘-and now you sit there and smile at me, as if none of it has happened. It is outrageous.’

‘I am sorry. I am. Look, I am not smiling.’ He is not. He stands, and puts a hand on Javert’s side without thinking. It is pushed away at once. No, he is not smiling any more. ‘It simply struck me how much I missed you, that is all.’

‘You would not have to miss me if you had not left.’

Javert dries himself like other people fight; rough, giving no quarter. His hair sticks out with the force of it, and it is a wonder there is any skin left at the end. Valjean has to step back out of the way. When he is finished, Javert drops the towel over the end of the sofa, and picks his clothes up off the floor. ‘I am going to bed. We can discuss this in the morning.’

He gives no chance for objection. He simply walks out and up the stairs, leaving Valjean behind.

 

*

 

To his surprise, Javert is in their bed when he comes upstairs. His back is turned away from the door, and he appears to be in a deep sleep – unsurprising, given how tired he looked. He does not think Javert would feign this; for all his lack of communication at times, he is still unfailingly honest. And so, he simply slides into the bed next to him, and blows out his candle. He wants to say his reasons out loud, even if they fall on deaf ears, just so he knows he has said them. He does not. He does not want to disturb Javert. And it is still, now. They live in the quietest house they could find, on the end of a street with only three other buildings. They are barely disturbed by passing carriages, let alone other people; let alone attempts at revolution. He can hear nothing but the soft breathing of his partner. He is clean, and in a fresh nightshirt. For the first time in days, he comes close to peace.

 

*

 

He wakes with a weight on his back. Not the full weight of a man, but something smaller. He blinks into the pillow, bleary-eyed, and registers that it is still entirely dark, not yet near morning. And that Javert’s breathing is not regular any more. He tries to turn his head to see, which is impossible without pushing off the head resting between his shoulder blades. Ah. Well, it is not the first time. And he has no objection at all. He only wishes he had not worn night clothes, so he could feel skin against his. He closes his eyes again, and is drifting back towards sleep, when he hears his voice, quiet and, as once before, almost shy.

‘Why did you do it?’

He remains still, but opens his eyes. His thoughts crash together slowly, deeply, trying to become one. It is too late for anything but the truth.

‘Because you were excited by that man getting caught. I thought you would like it.’

There is a long intake of breath against his back. It is let out slowly. A tentative hand slides up under his nightshirt, and comes to rest on his hip. ‘Go back to sleep.’

‘All right.’

Javert does not move. Valjean goes back to sleep, the smallest of smiles on his lips.

 

*

 

He wakes to the feel of lips sucking at his shoulder. His nightshirt has been pulled aside to reveal skin, and Javert lies pressed against his side and back, fingers curled into the crease of his hip. Valjean smiles drowsily and pushes back a little, into the solid, implacable warmth of him. He hears a hitched breath, and only then realises that Javert is hard against his backside, and that his kisses are as intent as they are gentle. The fingers at his hip begin to stroke, and then slip to the space between his legs. He is half-hard; held, and surrounded by this man. The sensation of safety is one he could melt into forever.

‘I thought you would leave.’

‘…what?’ He is drowsy, and being stroked. His brain does not want to catch up.

‘If I did not find you in the three days. I thought you would not come back.’

‘…Javert. _No._ ’

Oh, God. That is not what – he tries to turn at once, pushing onto his elbow. Javert allows it, but does not relinquish his hold on him. ‘I was coming back when the trouble started. I promise you. Please, never think that. That was never my intent. ’

For a long moment, they simply look at each other. Valjean cannot see the nuances of his expression in the dark, but after a moment, he does not need to. Javert starts to speak, checks himself...and then lunges for a kiss instead. It is hard at once, and clearly desperate; lips and tongue and a hand coming to grip his hair; a moan, a press of his hips, the sort of kiss that can sweep a life away. Valjean cannot breathe through it; Javert takes his mouth as though it is the only source of air, as though he will devour him entire so he may never escape again. They are both panting when they break, and Valjean feels his night shirt being pushed up his back.

‘Can we...?’

‘You never need to ask.’ And especially not when the man thought he might have disappeared for good. He never considered it would come across that way. On a whim, he presses his hand to Javert’s cheek, and loses his breath again when he leans into the touch. He never does that. ‘I am so sorry. I would never leave. I thought to give you some excitement back, that is all.’

Javert kisses him again, shorter this time because he is pulling at his nightshirt. He stops when it needs to be yanked over his head; a cup of water is knocked from the bedside table when he flings it away. He clearly does not care; he moves now, folds himself, presses hot kisses up the curve of Valjean’s spine, his hand caressing him to hardness. There is a quiet sound of pleasure and he stills, pressed hard against his back. ‘I do not need excitement,’ he breathes.

It is obvious what he needs. What _they_ need. Valjean stifles a moan, and rests on his elbows while Javert stretches for the cabinet. The sound of scraping wood has never been so intoxicating; Valjean swallows hard, and tries to keep his breathing steady, anticipation ghosting the ends of his nerves. As Javert moves, his erection strokes across the back of him and Valjean forces himself not to push back. Nothing feels tentative, but given the anger of earlier, he does not want to risk it. Perhaps it would be sensible to talk first, but he has never been a man of many words. Action is what puts a problem right; action is what proves devotion, or faith, or love. This is all three. And more, because he will never try to convince himself, or Javert, that he does not want this. Beyond even that, is the spectre of these last three days. This will lay them to rest, he is sure of it. He has never felt lonely when Javert’s hands are on him, he never thinks of the past. This will pull him back to the light.

Javert lays a kiss between his shoulder blades. He is holding his hip, and there comes the unmistakable sound of oil being slicked over skin. Valjean waits, excitement fluttering inside him like wings of a moth against the window. The air is thick as if stuffed with gauze; his chest moves slowly, and he is aware, so aware, of the muted roar of blood in his ears. He rests his head on his forearms, and pictures Javert behind him, working his prick with his oil-shined hand. He will be taut, and lean, and....yes, there, his hand will grip harder when he is ready, because he likes to mete out pleasure at his own pace. Valjean pushes the question that rises in his head to one side, and instead breathes out slowly when he feels fingertips begin to stroke his opening. This part used to be awkward, but no longer. There is guilty pleasure to be had in the image this act creates; Javert kneeling over him, making him cry out with a simple twist of his fingers. Sometimes it is more intimate than being impaled on his length; Javert writes with that hand, he cooks and eats food, he plants flowers. Those fingers draw, they taste, they hold the hands of his grandchildren. They take life no more. They hold him, and touch him, they give so much. And now they show love; Valjean shuts his eyes and breathes slowly, as the stroke turns to a push, and slips easily into him. And then another, while his prick is grasped gently and encouraged to thicken fully. His body flushes its approval; his knees come to brace as he pushes back, and then spread wide.

‘I am sorry too,’ he hears, from somewhere above him in the dark. Javert’s touch is sure, but softer than usual. It gentles over the sensitive spot inside him, lingers there at his gasp. Presses at it, as light fingers play over the swollen head of his cock. He makes a sound. Javert does it again; soft, too soft, and Valjean has to bow his back to encourage him deeper.

‘Why?’ he says, already breathless. ‘You did nothing wrong.’

‘In the park. And after. I was-‘

‘Please. We can talk of it afterwards. _Please_.’

The hand on his cock stills. ‘Do not beg. You, of all...do not beg. I will-‘

‘ _Please_. I must-‘ he rocks his hips back, needing movement. He will chase pleasure if he has to; he does not want to have to bear another night missing it. ‘If you do not want me to beg, then... _ah_ , oh Lord-‘

A moment to catch his breath. ‘-then do not make me. Or do make me. I do not care, just please-‘

He thrusts back this time, and hears Javert pull in a breath. And then nothing, because the fingers in him pull out and then push back harder, then once more, and then they are gone. He bites his lip, and curls his fingers into the sheet as Javert presses his thighs to the back of his legs, and he feels the thick head of his cock being drawn down the crease of his backside. He waits, eyes closed, _please now_ , and Javert runs his hands down his sides, grasps his hip once more, and then yes, _there_ , the familiar dull ache of being stretched; the exquisite feel of being full , being pushed, a slow pressure that suddenly...his head snaps up, and his cry breaks the air; Javert sucks in a breath to match, as pleasure sparks to life inside him. He clamps around it, holding it, letting it wash over him. He knows Javert is waiting, he always waits, this part is always so _good_. But the man’s hands are roaming tonight, palms flat down his back, down his flanks; he rocks back and is rewarded with a moan. The times he cannot see him, he imagines Javert to be aloof and in control, pleasuring him at his own pace – but there is a quiver to his sigh tonight, a tentative question in his gentle hands. They come to rest just below his waist, and pull him back; Valjean meets the first thrust easily and from there, it is the simplest thing in the world to fall into the rhythm of their bodies.

It is quieter than usual, and he grips the sheet harder. But Javert is not taking him as he usually does. Heat rolls up from his centre, but it is not frantic the way it was last time; he does not feel possessed; the desperation of his earlier kisses does not match Javert’s easy pace. It is soft, and pretty, and Valjean needs more.

‘What is wrong?’ he says, quietly. And to his dismay, doubt starts to rise again.

‘Nothing.’

‘Javert.’

‘...is it not pleasing?’

With an effort, he stills. He tries to look back, but it is still dark. He cannot see anything. ‘You do not want me to beg. But I will, if I must.’

‘But I am giving-‘

‘Give it harder. Please. Give it as you normally do.’

Javert’s hands loosen their hold. Still, there is no mistaking the way his breath quickens, and his hips press forward a touch. ‘I thought you did not-‘

‘You are wrong. _Now_ , please, Javert.’

Everything rests. Except Valjean’s pulse which throbs in his neck as the air shifts, and thickens more; as Javert’s hand runs hard up his back, and slips into his hair. He leans back into the grip, even as he hears, ‘are you sure?’

‘ _Yes._ ’

A thrust then, which rocks the bed. A desperate, nervous sound comes from his throat. Javert does it again. Another cry, and the frame of the bed knocks the wall. ‘More,’ he says, and gasps; Javert’s fingers curl into a fist, his hair caught between, and the other folds over the curve of his shoulder. He is deep in him, and when his face is pushed carefully to the pillow, he is deeper still. Another hard thrust, and another; Valjean scrabbles uselessly at the sheet, and has to hold the end of the mattress instead. Javert speeds, and the spark inside ignites in a blaze of frazzled red and gold; he screws his eyes up, lets out a wretched moan and pushes back to meet every possessive shove of the man’s hips.

‘Why like this?’

Javert does not ease as he asks it – by the rasp to his tone, he may not be able to. Valjean muffles a cry into the pillow, and tries to form words. ‘It is good. Lord in Heaven, it is good.’

It is better than good. He cannot spread further, but wishes he could; Javert cannot go deeper, but he _wishes he could_. It is better than possession; it is the forcible sweeping away of all doubt, all worry, everything but the purest connection. Javert’s hands are warm as fire, slipping in the sweat weeping from his skin; they scratch down his ribs now, grasp him hard at the hips to keep him still so he may be pushed harder. He groans desperately and tries to clench, but Javert hisses his name and pounds him for a span of seconds, and he does not want it to be over yet, so he stops. When he relaxes, Javert swears and heaves again, and then folds himself down over his back, moulding them together, pushing him flat onto the bed. ‘You like it. That is why.’

It is whispered roughly into his ear, and he nods, his skin set alight by the friction of Javert’s body on his. He cannot stop nodding; _yes_ , he likes it; _yes_ , everything about it; _no_ , do not stop, or slow – he reaches behind and presses his hand to the back of Javert’s leg, pulling him closer. A startled huff into his neck then, and Javert pushes his arms underneath him, wraps him as tight as he can, and jerks his hips, over and over, until Valjean cannot think, or see, or breathe; until he hears himself saying _please_ in a tone so desperate he might be crying, and Javert does not object this time; he just fastens his teeth softly in his shoulder, sucks the sweat off his skin, and moans, and fondles his prick until  it is wet, and desperate, and Valjean is writhing on the bed like a landed eel. He is trying to push his rear up to make room for Javert’s hand, so he may work him properly, so he may be allowed to finish. But he is not allowed, and must suffer the lightest of touches, drawing the white tears over the aching, swollen head; he must hear himself sob for breath and feel nails scratch his chest with care, and think of nothing but the painful, unbearable, _perfect_ tension standing between his legs. Javert is going to finish, he can feel it in the panting breath on his neck; his shaking legs, and the way his balls are too tight to hit him any more – but still he does not relent, and Valjean bites the pillow in frustration, and bounces between the shooting flame inside, and the teasing sparks dancing over his straining prick, drawn forth by the beautiful cruelty of Javert’s tender love.

It is not over when Javert finishes, though he thinks he cannot bear the satisfaction it brings. There is a sharp intake of breath. He feels the arms around him tighten, and then he is pushed entirely flat; Javert buries his face in his neck, thrusts once, and then again, and then everything is rigid, and he is held so tight he cannot fill his lungs. It sends a shock of arousal through him once more, which earths in his groin; he puts a hand back and holds Javert’s head close to him, and lets him ride it in peace. It is all he can do to stay still, but he is not made to wait long; Javert chuckles lightly, breathlessly, and goes to kiss him. But then does not. Their lips do not quite catch. They just brush, and Javert moves back a fraction when Valjean chases the touch. He grins blearily, and allows Valjean to rise an inch or two off the bed; his fingers cease teasing, and close around his prick properly.

‘Now, you may.’

Valjean’s turn to be surprised, but he does not think further. Javert’s fingers are not tight. There is room to push through them, so he does. And then again, and then more, the pad of one catching the underside of his cock at every crucial moment. They do not part even an inch, skin sliding together wetly, mouths almost touching but not quite there, breathing each other’s panting breath, eye to eye. Valjean is struck, through his haze of incoherent bliss, that they have never done this before. That it is more intimate than he could have thought...but he is not thinking; Javert closes his fist and pumps him along and everything is white light, and wet and slippery; his voice raises in a high-pitched tremor and he is finished, and lost, crying out into the kiss he is granted as Javert brings him to the end. He is shaking, they are both shaking, but it is heaven on earth, and he will not be convinced otherwise. This is love; condensed. A single moment, a single shining glimpse of what it is to join with another person, and share the joy of God’s blessing on them.

 

*

 

He wakes with the sun on his face, and an ache in his muscles. For a long time, he does not move. It is a simple thing, to lie in one’s own bed, and be pulled from sleep with happiness in mind, but he will never tire of it, or become bored. A stretch then, and he turns; only then does he realise he is alone in the sheets. Not the room, though; the smell of tea reaches him, and then he sees Javert, sitting comfortably in their bedchamber chair, dressed only in trousers.

‘Good morning,’ he says, still smiling. Javert does not smile back.

‘Good morning.’

He does not sound pleased. The happiness dims a little, but does not die. Valjean pushes himself up to sitting, wincing only a little, and regards the man openly. ‘Is it late?’

‘Not too much so.’ A pause, where they simply look at each other. Then Javert gestures towards the cup. ‘I brought tea.’

‘Yes.’ He does not mention the fact that they never, ever, drink tea in bed. Javert considers it heathen behaviour. ‘Thank you.’

A nod, and then silence. He takes a sip, and sets the cup down, then props himself up on pillows at the head of the bed. It is not difficult to surmise that a conversation still needs to occur, the activities of the night aside. And Javert appears to be waiting, so he starts the only way he knows how. ‘I will apologise again.’

A wave of a hand. ‘You have said that enough. Very well; I understand that you are sorry.’ Valjean watches as he collates another thought. ‘Nevertheless. I still do not understand.’

Valjean is not sure he does either, any more. Everything is confused, everything wrapped up in things he wants versus things he thought he did not want, which were fairly well disproved in the night. The only thing he is sure of is that he will not return to his old life; that he will fight tooth and claw never to be adrift that way again. If God says it must be, he will acquiesce, but under no other circumstances. So he drinks his tea, and tries to push the errant emotions together, so they may come out in a way that Javert will understand.

‘You do not touch me,’ he says, eventually.

Javert’s eyebrows raise, a clear reference to the fact that no, that is patently not true.

‘Yes, I know, you do. You did last night. And after the park-‘ Javert looks away here, but he presses on. ‘Before that, it was a month. And only then, I think, because you caught me...well, you know how you caught me. Before that? I can scarcely remember. And I – well.’ His cheeks flush a little, but he does not let himself remove his gaze from Javert’s face. ‘I thought you had lost interest,’ he mutters. ‘Then you saw that chase, and it obviously affected you. I thought perhaps, if I gave you that, then you would be more...eager.’

He knows he was right, is right, but is still embarrassed to say it. For all the things they have done to each other since this began, they do not _talk_ of it. They touch, and lick, and suck and take, and then the next day they smile, and it is never discussed. It feels improper to broach it now, as if it is a portioned-off section of their lives, never to be brought out of the dark. Even when it is conducted in the day.

Javert sighs. His fingers move from being interlocked over his stomach, to loose and aimless. He picks at a thread on the chair, and then lets it drop. ‘I have not lost interest in you. I would have thought that was obvious.’

‘It is, now. It was not before.’

‘Yes...well. Very well. I can see how perhaps you might have thought it.’

He does not seem inclined to add more. Valjean waits, but no. Nothing. ‘The man in the park?’ he prompts, eventually. ‘You found him interesting?’

It has come out wrong, but he cannot take it back. Javert’s eyes swivel back to him, hard now, and with a hint of ice. ‘Do not demean me with such a suggestion. If it were not for you, I would never have-‘

‘I know. I apologise. That was not my meaning. I meant to say – the way he was caught. You must have done something similar a thousand times. Is that...is it what you like?’

Javert stands abruptly. For a moment, Valjean thinks he will storm out of the room. But no, he is only pacing, and drawing a hand through his hair. He lets him be, because there is an obvious struggle going on. Then, at last, another sigh, and he turns to face him, his hands helpless by his side.

‘Yes,’ he says, simply. ‘It is what I like. You must understand, Valjean, I had never attempted-‘ a gesture between the two of them. ‘You know this. But that is not to say I have never had the same urges any man does...though, of course, not as normal men do, towards women.’

Valjean nods. He hopes it is encouraging. Javert paces a little more, then walks over and sits on the edge of the bed. He is embarrassed, it is clear. But there is no going back now. ‘I never acted on such urges. I thought them beneath me. You know this, too. But sometimes, they are not to be denied. And when closing in on a criminal, they were not – that is to say, it was more difficult to control them.’

He says this without attempting eye contact. Valjean, without thinking, puts a hand to his arm. ‘It is not something to be ashamed of.’

‘Of course it is. I could not stop it happening; that is well enough.  Denial will do that. But for it to happen in front of _you_...and then I treated you badly, I think. I held you down. I should not have done that, and I am sorry.’

He could not look more woebegone, Valjean thinks, and has to resist the urge to laugh gently. He squeezes his arm instead. ‘I was surprised, I admit. And I began to think it was the only way to get you to want me again. So, I thought-‘

It is obvious what he thought. Javert nods, head still down, and appears to be thinking again. Valjean finishes his drink, and sets the cup down. It is Saturday. They will go to see Cosette later, and talk to her friend. The sun is shining. All will be well. He does remember a question though, and ventures it after a moment’s more silence. ‘You said you found me after a day. Why did you not come then? What did you do the other two days?’

Javert looks surprised the question needs to be asked. ‘I thought it was what you wanted! Three days, you said. I let you be.’

‘But what did you do?’

‘I watched you.’

Javert’s eyes are wide, and puzzled; Valjean cannot understand why this is not obviously strange. ‘But...why? If you had found me, I would have come with you at once.’

‘And how was I supposed to know that, Valjean? You said nothing. I thought you had it in mind to test me, and then leave if I failed! If you wanted to leave, who am I to try and stop you? You can be free of me any time, you know. I would not have blamed you, given my behaviour.’

‘...what behaviour?’ He is genuinely lost at this point. But in return, Javert seems no closer to understanding him. The man stands again, frustrated like a dog behind a fence. Something that can see the bone, but not reach it.

‘I held you down,’ he says. ‘I put my hands at your throat. I have thought of worse; I have had to stop myself suggesting it. Or worse, just doing it. I thought it better to just...stop. After...well, you should not tolerate such things from me. It is not right.’

‘Ah.’

It is his turn to think. Because Javert is right, of course. He should not tolerate such things, and more, he should not find that he likes them. He wonders now, after last night, whether this desire is something born from his past, or is something that has always been in him, but never had the chance to rise until now. There is no way of knowing. Except that he is sure that it is a different thing to be held down again against his will, and another to allow it from a loving partner.

‘Javert,’ he says, and rises to his knees on the bed so he may reach him, and put a hand on his wrist. The man stills under his touch, though his chin has to be coaxed upwards with a nudging finger. Valjean smiles then, and squeezes lightly. ‘It is not right if I do not like it. And I was not sure if I liked it. But...if we are going to be honest with each other, as I hope we are – you saw that I did. I do.’

Javert is still a long time. And then; ‘so this is what you want from me?’

A fair question. ‘No,’ he says, after a moment’s more thought. ‘I want you to touch me when you feel the need, or desire. I want you to not leave it until you cannot hold it in any longer. And more – I want you to sit in the garden, and be cross at the newspaper, and be scared of my grandson’s questions, and only help me with the weeds under great sufferance. I want all the things we have already, and then I want you to take me to bed. That is what I want. I do not want-‘

It feels so wrong to be saying he wants anything at all. But what is the alternative? Wandering in darkness, alone. He has always tried to think, and learn, and adapt; this is simply a new area, is it not? It requires another person to agree, but if Javert wants what he wants, why should they not adapt together?

‘What do you not want?’

Javert looks curious. He forces a smile through the dimness of memory. ‘To be without you any more. In any sense of the phrase.’

‘Ah.’ And at last, a smile in return. It is tentative, and shy once more. But it is there, and Javert turns to him properly, and sits next to him on the bed. ‘You do not think it is depraved, then? Wanting to subdue someone you...care about.’

‘I think it is depraved not to say ‘love’ when that is what you mean.’

He grins to show he is teasing, and lies back on the pillows. He is tired. Javert looks mulish, so he pulls him along too. After a brief resistance, he gives in, and lies next to him with an arm curled around his middle. ‘That is why you have avoided me.’

‘I did not want you to think I thought of you as lesser than me. I do not. You deserve more respect.’

Respect is irrelevant to him. He does not know if Javert has learned this yet, and this is not the time to teach it. He kisses him instead, because he can. ‘Tell me you respect me.’

‘I respect you.’

‘There. Now you may do as you please.’

‘It is not as simple as that.’

‘It is. I promise you, it is.’ He turns his head so he can press a kiss to Javert’s shoulder. ‘I have taken a long time to learn this again, because it is different with Cosette than with you. But...it is simple indeed.’ Another kiss; slower, longer. ‘You are keeping me in the light, Javert. You do not remind me of being a prisoner. You make me forget I ever was. It is all I want; as you are all I want. I cannot say it more plain.’

He is not sure he is believed; Javert, for all his insistence on knowing his own self, is as new to this as he is. But he strokes a finger down his jaw, and the man turns his head to press a kiss to his lips. It is as good as understanding. He did not know it before he took himself away, but it is plain as anything now. He will submit to it, willingly. They will both have what they need.

It appears Javert has no objection, if the wandering hand is any indication. But it stops, low on his belly, and he is compelled to meet his gaze to see why.

‘Do not think I have forgotten the other thing.’

‘Other thing?’

‘Yes.’ The hand disappears below the sheet, and Valjean smiles again. ‘Your tendency to blunder into violent mobs on the street. We must have a serious discussion about this.’

Valjean chuckles quietly. And then his breath hitches and he grips Javert’s shoulder to make sure he does not stop. ‘Yes,’ he says, lips spreading into a grin. ‘Afterwards.’

Javert purses his lips, and surveys him darkly. Then a corner of his mouth turns up, and he lowers his head to kiss him. ‘Very well,’ he says, softly. ‘Afterwards.’

 

 


End file.
